Contrast: Black and white possession
by bunyipbabe
Summary: Xanxus has a few thoughts about his favourite guardian and their interesting relationship. It's not love... honest.


**Contrast.**

A.N./ Okay, this is just a short piece of MALExMALE fanfiction (No likey, no ready, no flamey!) between the members of my current favourite pairing from my current favourite anime- Xanxus and Squalo from Katekyoushi Hitman Reborn. Just a bit of pure smut I came up with randomly one day, because I was bored. PWP, mostly. From Xanxus' mind, so there will be swearing.

Emmm, what else… most of it's kinda emo-ish flash backs about Squalo's almost-death with the shark and Xanxus' feelings. It's kinda hard to give a guy like Xanxus even a semblance of giving two shits about someone other than himself, so he's probably a bit OOC. I'll apologise for that now.

Sorrysorrysorry.

On with the story, please read and review, characters do not belong to me although plot does, etc. etc. etc.

Have fun and give feedback! The hungry writer needs mentally stimulating response to keep her going; otherwise she will curl up and die in a corner!

/

It's not love, far from it.

It's more like a need, a primal desire, an animistic want for something, _anything_, to touch and to hurt and to feel and to claim as his, only his…

Squalo fulfils that need as if he was born to do it, spreading his legs for his arrogant, angry boss like it's the most natural thing on earth. He does it with the same non-questioning grace as he does anything else that Xanxus cares to ask; from ordering truckloads of spirits from not-entirely-legit companies in anywhere from Alabama to Zimbabwe to hunting down enemies of the Vongola and cutting through them with his sword like they were made out of the rain he himself personifies.

He even does things that Xanxus doesn't order to him, and, in a way, those things are what impresses the scarred, handsome mafia boss the most. After all, despite what any others might think behind sceptically raised brows, if Xanxus ever made this information public, he doesn't just want a pawn to follow him around like a little lapdog and cater loyally to his every whim.

No, he wants _Squalo,_ all of it that the silver haired Italian can offer.

He wants the shark's overly loud, constantly obnoxious voice blathering in his ear about the usual shit, and the catlike yowl of his name Squalo always gives when he comes hard into Xanxus' large fist, his orgasm trembling his thin ass around Xanxus' large cock.

"X-Xanxus!"

He wants to see those eerie, colourless eyes close in the mixture of pain and ecstasy that only Xanxus can deliver to him, that pale, perfect face thrown back against pillows or paper that Xanxus can't be fucked to file away off his desk in a shroud of silverly hair, those pale, perfect thighs wrapped up around Xanxus, thin enough to break.

Yes, he wants it all, and the only person who can give it all to him is the one he wants.

Which may sound a little bit rhetorical for a sane person- but hey, Xanxus had never been one to deny the fact that both he and his family were pretty much as far from 'sane' as it got without living in a room with padded walls.

Everything about Squalo belongs to Xanxus. His loyalty. His sword. His impossible hair, his promise, and his body. And Xanxus will never let him forget that.

/

Take now for instance- with Squalo thrown roughly backwards onto the bed, Xanxus laying between his legs and pressing their lips tight together. It's not a kiss, it's an attack, tongue invading the warm caverns of the smaller man's mouth and ravishing it like there's no tomorrow. Squalo doesn't fight back, working up an arm to wrap around his boss's larger shoulders. His blunted nails are scratching sharp as a cats on tanned flesh, and he lets loose a soft wail that ignites a coil of fire deep down in Xanxus' stomach as something _else _also invades, further down, all slicked up and ready for action.

Truth to be told, it's not like Xanxus to bother with something like preparation - after all, as Squalo belongs to him, his pain isn't that much of an issue, and if it were anyone else but his Rain, he probably wouldn't have bothered. But the shark's body can be so damn tight it's a trouble to get in and out of, and, anyway, Xanxus prefers that ghostly skin when it's stroked with the blood of his swordsman's enemies, not with his own.

Like that time when Squalo and that gormless brat of a guardian for the current Vongola Tenth had clashed in the school's flooding basement, only a few piles of debris away from a painful death at the jaws of his shark's own namesake.

Xanxus wasn't one to admit it, but it wasn't only mirth he felt when his most loyal subordinate leapt into the jaws of the beast to save the life of his enemy- behind his façade of cruel mockingbird's laughter there lay a well of pain, of pure undiluted _horror _that he would never see the proud idiot again. And, strangely, the fact that he felt this against his own will hurt more than anything.

It was rationalisable, of course: Maybe he felt it because Squalo was the only guardian who could ever match his pace to Xanxus' in a fight. Maybe it was because whilst he, the 'father' of their dysfunctional family, bought in the jobs and gave the orders, Squalo, the 'mother', was the only one who could keep them all somewhat under control without shooting them somewhere painful.

Or maybe it was because Squalo had sworn his heart's beat to Xanxus in the same way he'd sworn his long hair, and Xanxus knew that the only person in the whole damn world who had the _deeds, _the _right _to that Shark's life, was him, Xanxus of the Varia. Definitely not some prepubescent brat with a big stick and an ugly, toothy monster whose name didn't do his loud-mouthed angelic killing machine any justice.

When Dino had finally pulled his half-dead subordinate from that beast's hellpit of a stomach, Xanxus had felt something strangely akin to relief. Even when Squalo, wrapped in bandages and drugged up to his neck, had spoken the damning words, confirmed the fact that he, the one person who Xanxus could honestly say that he trusted in the world after his father's painful betrayal, had known his deepest, darkest secret since the day he'd been confined in the ice eight years ago, Xanxus had only felt thankful that he had lived through his ordeal. Thankful for someone else's life. A feeling barely ever placed in conjunction with the demonic man.

_Mine. Still mine._

And now, almost a whole year later, with Tsuna and his fellow brats returning from a strange, futuristic world and gifting them all with not-quite memories of their lives-to-be, Squalo still was his. And Xanxus was determined that that was one thing in his life that he would never let go of.

He could leave behind his father. He could even leave behind the title of Vongola 10th, or at least until that little pissant Tsuna became strong enough to be worthy of another fight with him. But he would keep holding onto Squalo until he died.

/

Squalo had come a minute or so before into Xanxus' hand with his usual yowl of pleasure, hair fanned out across his back and the bed and all-fucking-everywhere. Xanxus, still thrusting and working his way towards a hazy release hovering just out of reach like a madman, reached out for a moment to tangle large, clumsy fingers, fingers that could only squeeze out life or pull a gun trigger, in that ghostly veil. His ruby eyes watched almost affectionately as he let the silver tresses slide silkily through them, soft as rain on velvet.

It wasn't this hair, this banner of pure white that the swordsman carried heavy as a noose over his shoulders that acted as his leash; it was this. The contrast, the difference between them, the tan and the pale, the black and the white merging to grey.

Xanxus pushed his fingers through that curtain of hair, spreading his palms against the equally blanched skin beneath. His eyes followed Squalo's shiver, the pads of his fingers felt it ricocheting beneath them, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he came hard, emptying himself into his Rain Guardian, filling him to the brim.

/

It really isn't love, he told himself later that night as he found his eyes wandering over yet again to the softly snoring silver haired mound beneath the covers beside him.

/

It's not love.

It's possession.

/

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